shower. Firing at her and Peter. Firing at the woman. Firing at the little girl. BIZARRE SHOWER ROOM MASSACRE!
they could all hear the two men outside in the dressing rooms. Loud voices. Curses. Women screaming. Lockers slamming and opening.
'I think I'm having a nosebleed,' Jane said.
Then it didn't matter. Nothing did. The two killers were inside the shower room.
Thinking about hand-to-gun combat, Peter listened to the black woman.
'What do you want in here?' she said to the two men. The same thing she'd asked him and Jane.
Neither of the Turtle Bay killers answered her Then a man's shoes clicked down hard against the tile floor. Cleats. Coming back to check for himself. So weird not being able to see the bastard. Gun drawn?
Every muscle in Peter's and Jane's bodies began to clench. Across from them a wet mop was leaning against the wall. Weapon?... Weapon.
Peter felt unbelievably protective suddenly. Full of rage. Ready to hit the black butcher boy with the mop. Make a try for his gun. One shot at the guy in the front. Impossible odds.
Then the second man called out. Something in Spanish. Vamonos. Both men left, and there was screaming outside. More doors slamming.
Jane hung up on the wall like a wet tissue, Blond hair down and dirty like a mop. Her nose bleeding.
Peter sank down to a full squatting position. Fetal position. Scared shitless position. He saw that the black woman in the shower with them was quite young. Twenty. Twenty-one. All ribs and sharp bones. The little girl was very, very pretty. Crying now because her mother was crying.
'Jesus, we're Sorry,' Peter said.
He and Jane waited a few minutes, made the woman promise to tell the police, then they left the dressing room.
Out in the concrete halls they didn't see either of the black killers. The building was jammed with people, though. Unbelievable shouting was blasting u and down the concrete tunnels. People were crying.
Finally they found the stairway out. they pushed and shoved their way through a wide-eyed crowd trying to find out what had happened. 'Is it another machete murder?... ' At the top of the stairs, Jane grabbed Peter hard around his chest. 'Hold me, Peter,' she said. 'Just hold me for a minute - '
Then, for the second straight day, the police of San Dominica took descriptions of the Cuban and Kingfish Toone.
'No blond Englishman?' the constable asked.
'He was there,' Peter said. 'We just didn't see him this time.'
The black policeman smiled. 'We didn't see him last time, either.
Las Vegas, Nevada
Friday Evening
That night in Las Vegas, the whole San Dominican operation continued toward a major blowup at breakneck speed: Great Western Air Transport reestablished contact with the Forlenza F@ly for the first time since Lathrop Wells.
At ten o'clock a long-haired fat man-somebody's bright idea of a professional gambler typefollowed Isadore Goldman's chauffeur-driven Fleetwood out of the glittering Flamingo Hotel. Toward 'downtown.'
The fat intelligence man's name was Tommie Hicks, and he was a 1968 Stanford Law School graduate. Beyond that, he'd been one of the original CIA representatives at the farmhouse in Lathrop Wells.
Hicks followed Goldman two cars back down Sahara Boulevard. Into the Strip proper. Past 9:5883 degrees on the Sahara clock. Past the Sands and three hundred other gaudy hotels.
to Caesar's Palace.
Once ensconced inside the gambling mecca, izzie Goldman began to play high-stakes blackjack. The old man was what the croupiers call a George player: a very classy high-roller.
In his first hour at blackjack, Goldman won what is a comfortable year's salary for most peoplejust over $34,000. Then the old man proceeded to lose more than $40,000, playing baccarat.
Since Tommie Hicks himself made $28,000 a year, the turnaround fascinated the hell out of him. Several times during the evening he fantasized walking up and taking away the old gangster's chips for safekeeping.
Just after 1:00 A.m. Goldman finally got up from his chair at baccarat. He headed for one of the men's rooms.
CAESAR'S it read on the swing door.
Tommie Hicks followed Goldman one swing behind. He understood perfectly well that he was no more than a centurion at this particular game.
The CIA man took the shiny urinal to the left of the old man.
Funny thing-Tommie Hicks found that he didn't have to go. Not a drop. Kind of humorous, actually. Something slightly ludicrous about sleuthing a fivefoot-two, seventy-four-year-old man, anyway. 'Didn't I meet you at one of Harry Hill's parties?' he asked as the old man tinkled.
A black man-pimp-looked their way from three urinals down the line. The black stud sniiled big ivory-and-gold teeth.
Izzie Goldman stared over at Hicks. He shrugged his small, rounded shoulders. 'Not me, Abe.'
